I cannot get enough of gardening this year! I watered everything, had fresh blueberries and raspberries for breakfast. Wacky Girl made me an iced coffee. I hung out laundry. And more laundry. Then we grabbed rakes and cleaned up underneath one of the rhodys, around (what’s left of) the upright fuchsia, the champagne bush, around one of our ferns. We pulled up weeds and cleared out a messy corner, pruned down suckers from the hazelnut tree, went crazy! We filled up our ginormous yard debris bin the city left, plus our two regular bins, and STILL had a huge pile left over.

After all that excitement, Wacky Girl and her Wacky Brother dragged a blanket under the champagne bush and hid out. (I don’t know what it’s called, this bush, but they grow like crazy. Ours drips long clusters full of white blossoms; my neighbor has one with pink blossoms that look just like pink bubbly. So pretty. And they thrive on neglect — my favorite kind of plant.) They needed a good place to hide. Did you have places to hide, growing up? I did. My favorite spot was right next to my grandparents’ front porch. They had these hedges (a type of laurel? I think) growing up tall and sheltering the porch. It was dry, cool and shady and the perfect spot for me, my two baby dolls, and a handful of books. I spent hours out there.

My other favorite spot (this was at my Dad’s folks place, too) was under the apple tree, sitting perched on a rock. It was the best spot for thinking. Ah, memories.

More from today: Folded laundry, WATCHED GENERAL HOSPITAL (BlackFriend and Laura — finally, some good storylines coming on), baked a fruit tart (with peaches, nectarines and plums), had Indian take-out for dinner (al fresco, the only way we dine around here in the summer) and then… glazed the coffee cake and had dessert outside. This was an A+ day. A+++.

“How much butter?” my husband asked, putting another forkful of cake into his mouth.

Me: “Just a couple tablespoons.”

Our daughter: “Try a couple sticks.”

Oh. My God. So good, with a little lemon extract and vanilla extract, powdered sugar glaze on top…

It was so good that we’re never making it again. No, I’m not including the recipe. You’d make it, eat it and regret it like we are.

Two cubes of butter! Damn. I just lost 10 pounds and I want it to stay lost, not find its way home.

The yard looks great. We’re plotting ways to turn that last empty corner of the yard into a hidey place for the kids. A teepee? A clubhouse? Tents? Trellises, to make a canopy to hide under? We don’t know yet. And we’re missing our fairies! No signs of them so far this year. Maybe they’ll be back soon?

Happy weekend, y’all.

wm

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So, I was dreaming I was eating strawberries, from our new plants. (Nekkid Neighbor can’t remember the name of these berries. In my dream they are called Harvest Heritage Strawberries.) (There is no such plant, don’t bother googling.) (???) (Honestly, I don’t care what they’re called — they’re lush and huge and so full of flavor. They’re the best strawberries I’ve ever had. That’s why I had to have some of her plants.)

My husband and I were having breakfast in the yard, in this dream. Gorgeous morning, fresh coffee and strawberries and pancakes or something, I have no idea. We were talking and laughing. Then I woke up.

Dear, sweet son was having wracking cough at six a.m., refused water. No fever, so that is a good thing. (Knock wood.) We both slept in until after 10 and woke up to…

Snow.

A powdering, not much, but still, snow. In Portland, Oregon! In almost-April!!! And all over the strawberry plants, which are quite hardy and I am sure will do just fine. (Knocking wood for no fever and for strawberries surviving the transplant.) No Fuchsia Saturday for us tomorrow, no planting potatoes. (I found a box of sprouted potatoes, forgotten from last fall’s harvest, down in the basement.)

I am laughing, and taking a minute to enjoy this craziest week ever.

best,

WM

Five p.m. weather and health update, just for Vixen: It’s hailing. That’s the third time this afternoon. Wacky Boy has had no fever all day, hall-e-LUjah, is drinking lots of liquids but refuses to eat anything besides breakfast bars. But that is not out of the ordinary, at all.

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Thanks to the Wacky Nekkid Neighbors, I now have two full beds of strawberries plants rooting into the rich, crumbly dirt in my back yard.

I have been depressed. Internets, I get depressed. I get the blues, the mean reds, the woe is me tragic-tragics. (more…)

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Here, dear readers — My day in real time.

Sort of.

5, 6, 7 & 8 a.m.: Sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Large Wacky Cat 2, the stripedy one, pins me in on one side; muscular husband pins me in on the other. Why does the Cat want to sleep with us? It’s so flippin’ hot. Unable to move. Sex? No. Have to sleep. Can’t open eyes. Consider a new lifestyle that involves not staying up so late at night. Hmmm. What time did we go to bed? Vaguely remember 11 o’clock news. Keep eyes closed. Sleep. (more…)

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It will be Monday morning. You will be mowing your lawn and weeding. Because you were too busy reassembling the house Saturday and cooking, doing laundry and dealing with a vomiting kid on Sunday (Happy Father’s Day! Arf.) to mow over the weekend. Also, you wanted your husband to have the weekend off, but instead you worked him like a dog and put him in charge of vomiting kid.

You might feel a little bad about this. Or you might not.

“No, you can’t have mac and cheese. Let’s see if you can keep the toast down, first.” (Moments like that I adore my husband. I had no idea what love was until the first time one of the kids caught the flu and he took care of them.)

The neighbor dog will be yipping at you. You will be a little concerned that the crazy door-to-door salesman (”Ma’am! I’m not selling anything!”) who came by last week and refused to leave your porch will return.

Salesman-Who-Is-Not-Salesman: “This is my job.”

You will be wearing your husband’s sweats and a stinky v-neck white T-shirt (Hanes) and the lawnmower will start smoking and there will be four guys from the City of Portland (”The City That Works!” The city that works my frickin’ nerves, make that) and they will be parked on their fat asses on the neighbors retaining wall at the end of the street, checking you out.

You will ignore them.

They will continue to take a break and stare. For 20 minutes they sit there, bs’ing and staring.

Apparently sweaty housewives cussing at their lawnmowers are all the rage.

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My husband — you may know him as Hockey God — did a nice photo essay on his blog. You should go check it out. And yes, I did say that about the Catholic church. Because I’m sick of all my snobby friends saying, “Well, at Cathedral/Holy Cross/Madeleine School/Holy Redeemer… etc. We don’t have those kind of problems.” (Lice, sex abuse, child abuse, meth monkeys, teachers who abuse kids…) Liars! You do so. You just cover it up better. Only, not always. To wit: this.

And from Whoorl and Snackie’s World (”Where Everybody is Bitchy and Nobody is Getting Licked!”), today’s meme:

1. Hey baby, what’s your sign? More importantly, do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?
Cancer, on the cusp of Gemini, with Sagittarius rising. Really, I think this explains it all. Yeah, and I was born in Year of the Dragon. Wacky Girl is Virgo and Perfect, Wacky Boy is Aries and Insane, Hockey God is double Sag with Scorpio Rising or something and Trouble. Of course I believe in astrology.

2. If you were offered a million dollars to never wear lip gloss again, would you take it?
Yes, because “chapstick” is not “lip gloss.” Ditto “lipstick” is not “lip gloss.”

3. Which blogger would you like to trade lives with for just one day and why?
Planet Nomad, because after one day in Africa, watching goats get slaughtered, lice would not seem like such a big deal. Or Nothing But Bonfires, because geez, who wouldn’t want to be Holly?

4. Do you want to have more children or have you not thought that far ahead yet?
Ha, ha, ha! You’re funny! Yeah, they’re cute until they bring home lice. Then they’re not that damn cute anymore. No, we’re done. No more kids, no more dogs, no more lice.

5. And finally, the most important question of the set….mayonnaise or Miracle Whip?
Mayo. But only on our hair.

PS — Whoorl was much more imaginative about this than I was. I’m just in a hurry. Laundry and all. Week Two of the Louse: More Cetaphil on hair; bed pillows, quilts, blankets on hot cycle in dryer for half an hour; sheets, towels and coats through laundry; entire house vacuumed again; and me, oh my! I even found time to plant cosmos, pansies and hollyhocks with the kids. (My husband is doing the vacuuming. With our new fancy purple Dyson vacuum cleaner. The man is a saint.)

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re: The Community Garden at our school. People, it is not enough to merely plant the garden, you must harvest it, too.

Also, tomatoes need to be staked.

Also, sunflowers? Pretty and all, but they suck. I mean suck. All. The. Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife out of the soil, sluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp… yep, there it goes. Nutrients, water, compost — vanished. So don’t be planting ten sunflowers in with lettuce, herbs, cabbages, all hippie-happy, “Oh! How I love to garden! It’s so fun and easy!” and what-have-you and expecting anything to grow except the sunflowers. They will eat the garden, believe me.

Then they will say, “I look so beautiful, don’t I? I deserved it all.” They’re vain that way.

That’s all I have to say about any of that.

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A guide to flowers:

(more…)

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